


Sauce For The Gander

by violentdarlings



Category: American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Bondage, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Orgasm Denial, Period appropriate language - Freeform, Pseudo-Incest, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Boys need their mommies.





	Sauce For The Gander

**Author's Note:**

> "What's sauce for the goose should be sauce for the gander": i.e., that what goes for one individual should apply to another, regardless of the differences between them.
> 
> Note: this fic is not about consensual kink between two adults. This fic is about a woman's revenge on her abuser in ways that are distinctly sadistic and constitute abuse. It is fiction. Also, it is heavily implied the woman involved is Lana Winters, but her identity is up to you.

Oliver wakes up, chained to his own bed in his own murder basement, and Mommy is there. Dark, serious eyes look him over. Oliver would say something, but there’s a gag in his mouth.

“You were going to kill me,” Mommy says. Oliver tests the chains, tensing his muscles. Not so much as an inch of give. Mommy has been very thorough in locking him up. “You were going to knock me out and kill me.” She shifts, gingerly, as though the chair she’s sitting on hurts her. “I imagine it hasn’t worked out quite as you planned.”

Oliver mumbles into the gag pointedly. Mommy stands, walks over, wrenches it out of his mouth. Oliver can talk, now, except his throat is so dry it’s like his tongue has turned to dust. “Water,” he rasps. Mommy arches an eyebrow.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, and walks away. Oliver shouts her name, her true name, and she doesn’t even look back.

“Scream all you like,” she tosses over her shoulder. “This room is soundproofed, remember?”

He does scream. He screams for his Mommy, and for someone to come and help him, and for someone to bring him water.

Mostly he screams for his Mommy.

 

Mommy doesn’t give him any water for another two days. By the end, Oliver is past caring, but the two days before were an exercise in humiliation.

He’d wet himself after the first few hours, the desire to control himself superseded by the pressure in his bladder. The human body continues to void its waste, even when no further nutrition or fluid is incoming; Oliver has no way of counting the hours, but he can tell the approximate time frames by the condition of his body. Eventually his body empties his bowels regardless of his will, and Oliver lies there in it, drifting in and out of consciousness as he dehydrates and itches, covered in his own waste.

He wakes to Mommy hosing him down, brutally, with icy cold water. She’s cut off his clothes and is rinsing him clean. Oliver’s teeth chatter and his whole body trembles, but only when Mommy directs the spray at his face does he – spluttering, coughing – taste water.

 

“You should be looking after me,” Oliver croaks, the next time he is awake. Mommy is there, on that same chair, her expression inscrutable. She looks at him sometimes like a scientist dissecting a bug. “Mothers should look after their children.” His voice cracks. “Mommies should look after their babies.”

“But you’re not a baby anymore, Oliver,” she replies. “You’re a big boy now. Big boys have to take their punishment when they’ve been bad.” Oliver closes his eyes. All he wants is to nurse at her breast again, to be at peace.

“I don’t want to be a big boy,” he whispers. Mommy laughs, like he’s said something funny. “Can’t I just be your baby again, Mommy?”

When he opens his eyes again, after the longest silence, Mommy is gone.

 

Mommy likes to make him sleep. Oliver has a whole cabinet of chemicals, to make people sleep or to make people wake up or to make them compliant, and Mommy is a quick learner.

She does things to him while he’s asleep. He wakes up the first time, to find himself naked but for a hastily-constructed diaper, and he can’t reach with his hands to take it off. “I need clothes,” he fumes when Mommy appears, dressed in his own bathrobe like she owns the place. “Get this absurd thing off me.” Mommy cocks her head.

“I thought you wanted to be a baby again?” she asks, but she undoes the safety pins holding the diaper in place. Oliver blushes, involuntarily, as the cloth falls away to reveal his small, soft penis, hiding in a wild bush of dark pubic hair. Mommy’s lip curls in derision.

“What’s this?” she asks, and her cold fingers coil around Oliver’s member. “Tell me what this is, baby.”

Baby. It sounds like both heaven and hell when she says it. “You know what it is,” Oliver mutters. He knows the scientific term for it, and any number of lewd words, picked up from med school, from patients, from the street. The thought of saying any of them to her is obscene.

Mommy laughs. It’s like razors down his spine. “You think this little thing could make Mommy happy, huh?” she asks, and tightens her hand on him. Oliver bites back a moan. He’s starting to thicken in her hand, to swell. “You think your little cock is man enough to fuck Mommy? You want to stick it in Mommy again?”

“Mommy, I want,” Oliver whines, and stops halfway through. He doesn’t know what he wants.

She slaps his face, so hard that his cheek burns like fire. “Tell me,” she says. Oliver turns his head away. His hips are jerking up in spite of himself. His whole face is flaming now.

“I want to feel good, Mommy,” he says quietly. He can’t help but look at her. Mommy lets his penis go.

“Only big boys get to fuck Mommy,” she says, and leaves him bare on the bed, his cock bobbing in mid-air as Oliver strains upwards, the instinct to thrust bowing his body.

He tries to break his chains again. All he does is hurt his wrists.

 

Mommy sets up an alarm clock, the one that used to be in his bedroom, and she sets it to ring every fifteen minutes. Every fifteen minutes, Mommy comes down the stairs, and she takes Oliver’s limp flesh into her hand and strokes it until it comes alive and he’s biting his lip, trying not to thrust up into her grip. Then she leaves.

Every fifteen minutes.

Around the eighth hour, his erection won’t go down. When Mommy comes again to silence the shrill wail of the alarm, she raises an eyebrow. “Keen, are we?” she asks.

“It’s priapism,” Oliver says tightly. “The blood flow has become constricted. It’s a serious medical issue –”

“Are you a doctor or a baby?” Mommy asks. Oliver swears at her.

“I’m _not_ a baby –”

“You kidnapped me to be your mother,” Mommy reminds him. “Be a good boy now, and hold still.”

Oliver groans aloud, when she grips him. only this time, she doesn’t stop when he reaches the brink, when his hands are fisted and his hips surging up in a parody of copulation. Mommy doesn’t stop, and Oliver finishes, his testicles tightening up against his body, semen rushing out over Mommy’s hand.

Mommy looks at it in disgust. “I’d make you lick it off, but the thought of touching your mouth is vile,” she says, and wipes her hand on a nearby rag. “Shall we continue?”

Oliver doesn’t understand, but then she takes hold of his member again. Oliver’s whole body spasms from the sensation; it’s too soon for him to be touched again, pain bordered with a thin wire of pleasure. “No.” Mommy’s eyes are cold as she sits back down on the side of the bed.

“You don’t say no to me, baby,” she says. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get through this together.” Her hand is like a machine, driving him mercilessly onwards.

Four minutes later, and Oliver reaches orgasm again. It’s still good enough to make his breath catch in his throat, but there’s a faint, dull, droning ache in his gonads. There doesn’t seem to be as much semen as before.

Oliver begins to gain a faint idea of what’s to come. Mommy milks him through three more climaxes, each more painful than the last, the skin on his penis becoming raw and abraded as she jerks him off. Mommy’s expression is unreadable, and Oliver with every agonising orgasm loses a little more of his control.

Mommy needs a break after the fifth. “God, this hurts your wrist,” she says, shaking out her arm. Even to himself, Oliver’s breathing is harsh and ragged, and his private area hurts in ways he’s never felt before.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. Mommy tilts her head.

“You conducted experiments, on those girls you killed,” she says. “To see what you liked. Sauce of the gander, baby.” A smile blooms on her mouth. “You did want me to take a more active interest in the male physique.” Apparently satisfied with the state of her arm, Mommy reaches towards him. Oliver flinches as her fingers stroke lightly up his length.

“No,” he groans. “No, don’t. I can’t, not again.” Mommy tuts.

“Mommy doesn’t enjoy this either, baby, but you want to grow up to be a good boy, don’t you?” Her fingernails bite in deep, breaking the skin, and now there’s blood trickling down his length as well as his own spend. “You want to make Mommy proud.”

There’s tears in his eyes. He does. He wants her to be proud. He hates her more than anyone else he’s ever known, and he loves her, too.

“Yes, Mommy,” Oliver whines, and comes three more times before he passes out from the pain.


End file.
